


Eternally, Yours.

by Vaecordia



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Emotional horror, Gen, Gore, Horror, Other, Psychological Horror, literally everything what do you think this is about the entities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 21:58:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18646894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaecordia/pseuds/Vaecordia
Summary: What is it like, to love an entity?





	Eternally, Yours.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by cuttoothed's piece on tumblr for the entities.

_ What is it like, to love an entity? _

_ i. the vast _

An endless, depthless love, reaching heights that you can’t fathom, depths that you don’t understand. You fall in love every day, every hour and every minute, always falling more, yet never reaching the ground. That love is boundless, limitless, and it is soon the only thing you know of. A desire that you can’t express, leaving you breathless, words slipping from your mind in gentle whispers that you can’t hear over the thrumming in your ears. It takes you for a ride, highs and lows, a rollercoaster that never ends − that you never want to end. And it goes on, a waltz with the emptiness, with the eternal.

_ ii. the lonely _

It’s a strange feeling, loving alone. Loving something that may never feel real, that may never have been real. Every time you get too attached, it all disappears, and your arms are left empty, your heart hollowed by the presence you miss. It’s to love something that is not yours to keep, that grows colder the more you kiss, that becomes fainter the more you love, that thins into a wisp of fog when you try to cage it. It shimmers under your touch, ripples of silk that vanishes under your touch. You miss it when it’s not there, but the presence of it makes you feel more alone. You love the nothing, and that’s alright with you.

_ iii. the dark _

It’s quiet, and there’s nothing in the darkness that surrounds you. And yet you feel the presence, something there, holding you in its empty embrace, its blackness blanketing you in a warm keep. You never want to leave, and you love how peaceful it is. It makes you feel safe, where most people are terrified, and you love what the Dark whispers into your ear at night. Promises of perfect paradise, an Eden, left empty forever, just for you and that which will bring you to oblivion. A kiss leaves a darkened trace, dripping from your cheek and smudging into your hand, and your smile goes unseen in the neverending darkness. There is nothing more you would ever ask for.

_ iv. the beholding _

It knows every part of you, and you’re little more than an open book. You’re laid bare in front of its thousands of eyes, watching incessantly. Not that you ever see them, but every cell in your body can feel them, the scrutiny, the darkest parts of your mind ensnared by its witty tendrils. You love how it knows every inch of you before you even say a word, and your silence is all it needs to know your most burning desire and your deepest fear. Perhaps once it picks apart every part of you, and that you have nothing to give anymore, perhaps it may grow bored of you. But for now, you love the way it feels like everything it is, focuses on you. You are the centre of the world, and you love it.

_ v. the stranger _

To love the Stranger is a love for the adventurous. The normal bores you, makes you feel like you’re dragging through the mud of the mundane. No, the love of the Stranger is ever changing and always shifting, becoming something new each day, each second. Waxen kisses that linger on your skin even when you no longer recognise the person in your arms, it is a love that takes each part of you and molds it into something entirely new. You don’t know how long you’ll be able to love that which is a constant metamorphosis. How long until you begin to miss all those you loved before, that you’ll never see again, and all those you’ll love in the future, but can’t keep?

_ vi. the spiral _

Love-driven to madness, a theme you’ve read of in all those poems you’ve perused, in every book whose romance you’ve clutched to with tender hands, and you’ve never appreciated what a crazed state love truly is. And when you wander that endless feeling of confusion, of left and right turns where there should be none, you wonder whether this is the love they’ve all sung about. It sends a shiver down your back, and you spiral further down, further away from what others call sanity − but the freedom of insanity is what you seek. Its promises are unintelligible, but you know what they mean anyway. Twisted kisses are all you know from it, and when it holds you, you feel like curling inwards. You love the hold it has, and you let it take you.

_ vii. the web  _

It feels like you’re bound, tethered into the hold it has on you. Silver threads wrapping around you, keeping you close, safe, under its control, and you don’t mind. It doesn’t want you to go too far, wander off into the unsafe, and you’re happy to stay in its hold. You’ve gotten used to the cobwebs and the spiders, and you let them find comfort in your home. After all, what is yours is just as much theirs, and you wouldn’t think of depriving them from the safety you benefit from. You love how it protects you, whispers gentle requests and quiet promises all night to you, allows you to be held and never straying away. You let the filaments capture you, and you feel their hold tightening on you. You take it as a sign of the strength of your love, and you let it. You let it happen. You’re happy.

_ viii. the corruption _

You can feel the love burrowing into your skin, navigating every part inside you, and it tells you it’s just for your sake − to make you a part of it. And soon enough, you learn to not pay attention to the squirming inside you. It’s only love. And you love it back, and you let it have your body as a feasting ground. You let others think you’re infected, contaminated, and you let them think that. They just don’t understand − none of them would ever really understand it, and you don’t particularly want to explain to them. You want to keep it all to yourself, and all of it is yours. You cherish every one of the bugs it gives you, grants you, blesses you with, and you let it spoil you with its love.

_ ix. the hunt _

Love is exhaustion. It is the taste of stale salty spit in your mouth and the desperate panting of your lungs as it chases you further, even if it’s already found you all too long ago. You feel  _ primal _ , when those talons dig into your skin, those claws capture you and grip you, before releasing you again. The Hunt begins again, never ending, and it’s the eternity of the chase that you love. Hard-to-get, is how some have described it, but it’s so much more than that − you’re the prize at the end of the race, and you race against time itself as you attempt an impossible escape. It always catches you, and you can only smile between gasps when it threatens to tear into you, before it lets go all over again.

_ x.  _ _ the flesh _

You want nothing more than to take each piece of yourself, and let it meld into the larger being of the Flesh. Let it grow, take more form, turn into even more beauty, but you can’t give up everything at the same time. You want to watch as your love feeds it, and it does − each day, you surrender a bit more, and each day, you love a bit more. The embrace is tender and warm, and the clicking noise of bones is soft to your ears. It doesn’t matter to you whether you lose a bone, a muscle, or a lung, you will give it everything it asks for. And your happiness grows with it. It’s never enough, and it won’t be, until you belong entirely to it.

_ xi. the slaughter _

The blood slides on your tongue, your lips, and you let the acrid taste slip into your memory with tender adoration. You’ve gotten used to cold metal against your skin or the smell of gunpowder whenever it’s around, the leaden, heavy scent of it pervading the air. Bruises litter your skin, testament to the mindless violence it so cherishes, that you’ve learned to tolerate, and then love, a sign of what you’ve come to adore yourself. Loving the Slaughter is painful, red slits against your skin, ink-dark kisses and bone-breaking touches. You drink the devastation it gives you, a castaway in a sea of red water. You fall prey to its love and its hate, both different names for what really is the same thing in your love. And it takes your heart and your being, desecrates it into a tomb for empires, a cemetary of the thousands of fallen it never cared about.

_ xii. the desolation _

You feel like Icarus, letting yourself so close to something that for sure will destroy you. You can feel the trembling heat, radiating from the barren terror of the burn you so long for, but don't let yourself have. You love a scorching desert, that can never return to you what you give it. You want to get closer, but every time the heat starts searing your skin, the dryness in your mouth, your throat, your body starts to clench your innards, your eyes burn with tears they can’t cry from the ecstasy you can’t achieve. You want more, you need more, but it’s the abandonment of cracked earth, burnt land. It’s begun seeping into your skin, into your bones, and you feel colder with each blistering touch. One day, you want to burn for love. 

_ xiii. the buried _

A chokehold touch, encompassing your entire self in what it is − you suffocate, but you know that it’s normal. It’s only what you’d expect. It’s not easy, always, to be subject to an asphyxiating love, feeling the rough earth sliding against skin as you gasp for breath. It’s the gravel you taste on your tongue, the sand in your lungs, the dust in your throat, smothering you in all it is, and you surrender to the feeling of dying in your lover’s arms. And yet you never do − it won’t let you die, and even as it gets harder to breathe, you feel all the more loved. 

_ xiv. the end _

To love the utter destruction at the end of everything, to feel the gripping fear of every soul on the planet, and yet feeling so small in the face of that shattering love, is what loving the End means. It feels like the voice of a thousand pains, of a million eternities and millennia of agony washing over you, drowning you in their endless fear, and you let it wrap you in its cold, cruel embrace. The god of all, that final fear, the End of everything, it wraps you in its arms and presses despair and ruination against your skin, with delicate lips as white as bone. Decay coats your skin, your eyes turn blind and your breath becomes shallow, and you give your life away in return for its undying love. A symbiosis, symphony for the dead. Perhaps someone might find the irony amusing, but you find your laughter captured by the eternal chill, your smile frozen, unmoving as a corpse. And maybe you are − maybe that’s what it made you into, that’s what became of you. It gave its love. You gave your life. 


End file.
